


baking soda and related tragedies

by SparrowFlight246



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baking, Birthday Cake, Birthday Party, Burns, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, two bros chilling in a kitchen five feet apart because they ARE gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25792681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparrowFlight246/pseuds/SparrowFlight246
Summary: Sokka and Zuko attempt to bake Hakoda a birthday cake.There are casualties.
Relationships: Hakoda & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 550





	baking soda and related tragedies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jaysong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaysong/gifts).



> Dedicated to my incredible beta. So glad you're feeling better, love :D

“I can’t believe I forgot the cake.” 

Katara’s perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, her head in her hands. She’s slumped over like the weight of the world is balanced on her shoulders. Admittedly, there is a noticeable absence of cake on the counter beside her, especially considering it’s the night before the party they need it for and the nearest grocery store is already closed. The timing really isn’t the best. “I can’t believe I forgot it,” she repeats, voice muffled by her palms. “It’s the _cake._ It’s practically the most important part—”

“It isn’t the most important part,” says Sokka. 

“—and I forgot about it.”

Sokka sighs, watching her. 

“I’m a horrible daughter,” she murmurs.

“Nah, I don’t think so. You’re just human.”

She lets out a mirthless huff of a laugh. “Don’t remind me.” She pauses, pulling her head up just enough to press the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Man, this party is gonna suck.”

She’s being dramatic, clearly. Sokka knows that. She’s run herself into the actual, hard as hell ground trying to get everything perfect, and although not having a cake is a bit of an issue, she’s worked so hard on every other aspect that the party is going to be incredible anyway. It’s almost an unavoidable outcome by this point. 

There’s still something about how absolutely defeated she looks that lets him know just how much all of this actually means to her. 

Just how much having a cake at their dad’s birthday party means to her, however small of a detail it is.

And, in some sense, he gets it. This birthday is a big one for them. It’s the first one their dad will have since he came home from war and the first one they’ll have with him since he left, and that makes for a pretty important event all in all. They’ve all been looking forward to it. 

That doesn’t mean that it has to be perfect, considering how Dad would literally be happy with a crumbling muffin and a single streamer and seriously, he would, but that’s just not how Katara sees it.

She’s a perfectionist. She likes things to be the way she plans them to be. She doesn’t do well with change, or blips in the path, or unexpected curve balls, and a missing cake checks every last one of those boxes. 

It’s such a small thing, but it’s enough to knock her off her axis, send her spinning towards the ground faster than she knows and harder than she can prepare for. 

Sokka’s always been good at catching her when she falls. 

And that’s when he screws up. 

He opens his mouth, you know, like an idiot, and what decides to come out without his consent is an entirely spontaneous, entirely un-thought-out, entirely _stupid,_ “I’ll make one, then.”

He loathes the words the second they leave his mouth, but the way Katara’s face snaps up in pure relief is enough that he immediately knows he can’t take them back. 

However, the relief falls just as quickly as it came, her face dropping back into her hands with it. “But you can’t bake,” she says, muffled again. “Do you even know how to turn on the oven?”

“I— god, Katara, why do you hurt me so, _yes,_ I know how to turn on the oven.”

Hesitantly, she lifts her head to look at him. “You’re sure?”

“You’re a brat, you know that? Here I am, offering you my honest help in a time of need, and here _you_ are, _insulting_ me as my only thanks—”

“Sokka.”

He stops, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing her with a flat look. 

“Thank you,” she says, and there’s something in her expression that tells him that she means it. “I really do appreciate it. But, seriously, the party is in the morning, and it’s already late, and not to insult your skills in the kitchen—” Sokka makes a face of protest, Katara speeds through before he can interrupt— “but we both know baking just isn’t your thing. Are you sure you can handle it?”

And, honestly? He isn’t. 

He actually does know how to work an oven, thank you very much, but truth be told, he just doesn’t have a whole lot of experience with the whole preparing food thing. Katara doesn’t want to submit to a store-bought cake, but hell if he knows what to do with ingredients and shit. It’s really not something he ever learned how to do. Not that he’s not willing to try, because he totally is, but he’s just not sure how the cake might end up if it’s up to him to make it. Probably not well. He’s not one to doubt himself, but in situations like this, he’s starting to feel the uncertainty. 

But looking at Katara right now, at how exhausted and worn thin she is, well. He decides he can figure it out. 

“I’m sure,” he says. “You get some sleep, okay? I’ll call in some outside help if I need it, but you need the rest. You’ve gotta be at your best for the party.”

She looks at him for two seconds, three, before she gives in. Hopping off the counter, she catches him in a tight hug. “Thank you,” she murmurs. 

And yeah, Sokka’s probably going to regret agreeing to this at some point, but that’s a problem for later. 

It’ll be worth it anyway.

***

At first, Sokka thinks that he kind of has this in the bag. 

It’s a bit of a challenge, sure, but it’s not as hard as he thought it would be. He sets up quickly, lining up the ingredients on the counter all orderly and organized like with the oven preheating and the pan already set to go, and yeah, he thinks, this isn’t too bad. He can do this. 

And then he realizes he has baking soda instead of baking powder.

This doesn’t seem like an incredible problem originally. Sokka guesses they’re similar enough to be interchangeable, but that’s before he looks it up to be sure and then _wow,_ because shit, he’s screwed. 

Baking powder is non negotiable, apparently. 

He blows out a short breath, phone in hand as he exits his search engine to switch over to his messages. It’s late, and he hates to bother any of his friends at this hour, but if any of them have baking powder or the capability to go out and buy him baking powder, then he’s not going to turn down any offers. 

Besides, he wouldn’t mind the company if any of them happen to want in on this late night kitchen sesh.

Scrolling through his options, though, a few people are out right off the bat. Toph can’t drive and would probably burn down his house at the first opportunity anyway, and while Suki would likely help him out in a heartbeat, she’s out of town this weekend. Aang’s always cool, but Katara’s going to need him at his optimistic best tomorrow in order for her to get through the party without breaking down, so he’s out too. Briefly, Sokka considers asking Bato or one of his dad’s other friends to give him a hand, but he quickly decides that adult involvement will be a last resort.

So, with all those guys disqualified, that leaves… well.

That leaves Zuko. 

Sokka’s not opposed to it. He’s not super close with Zuko, no, and the guy unnerves him a little, yes, but he’s not a _bad_ guy, and he wouldn’t mind getting to know him a little better. Tonight would be a good opportunity for that. Bonding experiences and all that jazz, you know.

And he really does need baking powder.

Quickly, before he can think better of it, Sokka presses send. 

***

Zuko shows up at the front door twenty minutes later with an orange box in his hand and utter uncertainty in his expression. 

“Uh, hey,” he says, when Sokka lets him in. “Brought the baking powder. Also, my uncle gave me this tea to bring along too— something about hospitality and us needing caffeine if we’re going to get through tonight.”

God, Sokka forgot how much he loves Zuko’s uncle. Iroh is so cool. He’s only met him a handful of times, but it’s enough to know that Iroh is who he wants to be when he grows up.

And, honestly, just the fact that they have baking powder now is great. And tea! Tea helps too. Man, things are looking up already. Sokka’s feeling optimistic.

“You’re awesome,” he tells Zuko earnestly. 

Zuko looks startled, but he’s not protesting it, and Sokka will take what he can get with this guy.

He explains the situation as he leads Zuko into the kitchen, giving him the rundown of Dad’s birthday party, Katara’s brief mental breakdown, and the reason they’re starting a cake from scratch just before eleven on a Friday night. Zuko perks up at the mention of Hakoda. Sokka knows that Zuko has a bit of an attachment to his dad after these past few months— Hakoda’s always had an eye for the broken, and Zuko fits the bill. Besides, Hakoda had once told Sokka, you can only share post-nightmare tea with somebody so many times before beginning to like each other. 

Zuko’s slept over their place with the group enough times and Hakoda has enough of his own demons that Sokka doesn’t doubt that. 

As it turns out, Zuko also perks up at the concept of actually baking. 

“I’m not very good at it,” he says, leaning back against the edge of the counter as he watches Sokka measure out dry ingredients, “but I’ve tried baking before. My uncle’s a fan of stuff like that— tries to teach me sometimes.”

Sokka lets out a light huff of a laugh. “And how does that usually go?”

“Not well.”

It’s such a deadpan response that Sokka actually glances up to make sure Zuko isn’t taking any of this too seriously, but it turns out the guy’s smiling. It’s a fragile thing, hesitant, but it’s there, and Sokka can’t help but return it. 

“Think you can handle softening the butter, then?”

It’s a newcomer’s start at conversation, Sokka knows. Doesn’t ask much, doesn’t demand anything, but it looks like that’ll be the way they’ll get through tonight. 

Zuko relaxes just a little bit more, and takes the butter dish from the counter. 

Sokka decides that he can make this work.

***

That’s before he realizes Zuko is an absolute backseat baker, and a _loud_ one at that, once he gets comfortable. 

“No, wait, wait, you’re still doing it wrong.”

Sokka pauses halfway through his third attempt at cracking an egg. Quietly, he reminds himself that he does actually like this guy. Not right now, exactly, but he does usually. He does. “How?” he asks, taking care to keep his voice steady. 

“Here, just— just let me.” 

Sokka moves aside. 

Zuko slips in beside him, taking the still unbroken egg from his hand. The open garbage can waits next to them, holding the sad remains of Sokka’s first two attempts, waiting patiently for the third. It’s taunting him.

“You have to do it softer,” Zuko says, “you don’t slam it against the side of the bowl the way you were doing. That just makes it shatter. You’ve gotta tap it, like—”

Zuko absolutely nails the egg against the rim of the mixing bowl. It promptly explodes. 

Sokka, leaning over Zuko’s shoulder with one hand planted on the counter, gets splattered. Zuko’s hand is covered. It’s dripping on the countertop. The oven beeps cheerfully from across the kitchen, accouncing yet again that it’s properly pre-heated and ready to roll despite the fact that the cake is still more concept than product.

“Please,” says Sokka, “continue to show me how I’m _doing it wrong.”_

***

It takes them a while, but they establish a sort of process eventually. Sokka measures, Zuko mixes, and slowly, very slowly, they start to actually make a cake. The eggs are a bit of a blip in the path, sure, but once they’ve got those out of the way, they’re practically set to go. 

Sokka’s starting to get confident again. This might not end up as the most stunningly attractive cake, but it’s gonna work. Cake is cake is cake, yeah? As long as it’s a decently cake-shaped mass Sokka thinks it’ll be fine. They’ve got this.

And, hey, it’s only just after midnight now. They might actually get this done with and themselves to bed at a decent hour at this rate.

Until Zuko accidentally hits Sokka with a puff of flour when he goes to pour it into the mixing bowl. 

“Whoops, sor— oh, shit.”

Because it was not just a puff. It was a _cloud._ A floating, violent mass of aerated ground grain, almost defying the laws of nature by attacking Sokka’s face like a particularly angry swarm of insects and with such _vigor_ that Sokka’s instantly covered.

He blinks the flour from his eyes.

Turns to look at Zuko. 

“There is no way,” he says. “No _way._ That wasn’t on purpose.”

And Zuko—

Zuko _chokes._

Zuko chokes, and it’s such an ambigiously worrying sound that Sokka has just enough time to be concerned before he realizes that the guy’s trying not to _laugh._ “I’m so sorry,” Zuko gets out, and then he actually is laughing. Like, actually, honestly laughing, despite how he tries to stifle it, and Sokka doesn’t know whether to be pleased or affronted. “It wasn’t, I swear, it—”

He looks up at Sokka again, lasts two full seconds staring at his stone set, flour-covered face, and that’s when he really loses it.

Sokka grabs a loose handful of flour straight from the bag and lobs it. 

***

Somewhere in between the flour fight and the resulting clean up, it occurs to Sokka that he’s never heard Zuko laugh like that before tonight. 

He doesn’t have a bad laugh, when it’s real. 

***

They finally get the cake in the oven a quarter after one. 

The kitchen is an actual mess, with powder still scattered across the floor and spilled batter drying on the countertops and a smudge of flour marking up the shoulder of Zuko’s black jacket, but they almost have the cake finished, and they almost have nothing left to worry about, and Sokka can’t complain. 

They end up sitting at the kitchen table with Iroh’s tea.

It’s quiet, but not in an awkward way. It’s dark outside, the few lights they have turned on in here shining golden with the night, and the tea actually is a really great blend, and it’s comfortable, oddly. 

“Thanks for helping me,” Sokka says, after a while. 

Zuko gets up to refill his mug. “Thanks for asking me.”

He squeezes Sokka’s shoulder when he passes him. It’s lightning fast and hesitant as hell and Zuko doesn’t look back when Sokka glances up, but he still does it.

Sokka . . . wouldn’t mind doing this whole hanging out thing more often.

***

When the timer beeps and it’s finally time to take the cake out of the oven, Sokka fucks up. 

He burns himself. 

Like, kind of badly. 

It’s dumb, honestly, he just goes to grab the cake pan with a pair of pot holders and the left one slips just a little bit as he’s touching down on the hot metal and stupidly enough, he doesn’t jerk away quick enough to avoid the consequences. Reflexes of steel right here. Bow down, peasants. 

But seriously, ouch. 

_”Shit!”_

The cake pan clatters back down to the oven rack, metal rattling against metal as Sokka backpedals. The skin across the entire right side of his left palm is already colored an angry red when he looks. He hisses, shaking it out like that could cool off the lingering heat, but moving it doesn’t exactly make anything better and his breath catches. 

He’s suddenly remembering why he usually stays out of the kitchen. 

But then—

“Wait, stop, Sokka, _stop.”_

Zuko already has the cake safely on the counter and the oven shut and sealed away, but he moves even quicker with Sokka. Before Sokka can protest, Zuko’s got a hand clamped around his wrist and is dragging him over to the sink, tap switched on as soon as Zuko can reach it and Sokka’s hand pulled under the stream as soon as Zuko decides the temperature appropriate. It’s fast and hurried and almost rough, fierce in its intensity, but it’s threaded with a frantic edge, nearly desperate. 

The grip Zuko has on his wrist is tight enough to hurt. 

Sokka doesn’t pull away.

It’s only then, with cool tap water rushing over Sokka’s palm, soothing the burn, easing the sting, that Zuko actually glances up at him. “You okay?” he asks hoarsely.

And looking at him, staring at him in the dim kitchen lighting with flour caught in his hair and panic caught in his eyes and a thousand thoughts of pain caught in his scar—

—his _scar—_

—Sokka gets it. 

***

“I’m okay, Zuko. It's okay.”

***

Sokka wraps up his hand while Zuko frosts the cake. 

This is a situation that’s decided after much turmoil and more arguing. Zuko is dead set on Sokka not touching anything else tonight in fear of letting him mess himself up even more, but it’s still Sokka’s dad’s cake, and he can still use a butter knife seriously Zuko _just let him hold the knife—_

Zuko wins, the dick. 

So Sokka is left sitting beside the first aid kit and gauzing up his hand while Zuko decorates the cake. It’s not flawless, obviously, but it could be worse, and the icing helps conceal the worst of the defects. 

Zuko’s almost finished by the time Sokka figures out how to properly wrap his palm one-handed. Luckily, the cake looks better than Sokka’s gauze job, with smudgy frosting reading out a birthday message to Hakoda and a shaky icing border around the edges, and it’s perfect for what they need it for. 

“Solid baked good,” Sokka states, standing beside him. 

Zuko doesn’t seem to know whether that’s a compliment or an insult until Sokka takes a page from Toph’s book and punches him in the shoulder, gentler than she would do, careful all the same. 

***

Sokka refuses to let Zuko drive home at almost three in the morning. It’s stupid, and irresponsible, really, to allow this guy to take on the roads at this hour, when there’s a couch down the hall and no reason not to use it. 

Zuko takes some convincing. He gives in after Sokka threatens to hide his keys until daybreak. 

They leave the kitchen as is for the moment, the first aid kit laying open on the table, dirty bowls sitting in the sink, flour lining the grout of the tile, the orange box of baking soda perched neatly beside Zuko’s folded jacket.

The cake is left waiting patiently on the countertop.

They crash on the nearest soft surface and sleep like the dead.

***

Hakoda wakes up early that next morning. Walking into the kitchen, sleep-blurred and still working his way to full wakefulness, he sees the cake before he sees the mess. 

And even when he does see the mess, the fondness already filling his chest is strong enough that he can’t bring himself to even pretend to care. 

He finds the boys next, passed out together on the sofa nearest to the kitchen. He hadn’t known Zuko was sleeping over last night. Part of him wonders if it was planned and he just missed the memo, but then he realizes Sokka’s still in his jeans and Zuko still has a _belt_ on and no, it was not planned. This was impromptu. Much like the baking session, if the state of the kitchen has anything to say about it.

He looks back at the boys.

Standing there, he takes in the way Zuko’s hand is curled around Sokka’s left wrist, pale fingers falling just short of the beginning of the gauze wrap. The way Sokka’s socked feet are pressed up against Zuko’s. The way Zuko is sleeping as if his nightmares can’t reach him, not here, not now, not with Sokka beside him.

They look… comfortable. 

Quite comfortable. 

And _ah,_ Hakoda thinks, because it looks like they're finally figuring out what everyone else already knows.

Quietly, Hakoda pulls out his phone, types a quick note to demand his ten bucks from Bato when he sees him later today, and goes to find the pair a blanket.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have the time and are willing, please consider dropping me a comment telling me your thoughts! Or just feel free to tell me about your day. I would absolutely love to hear either :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful rest of your day!


End file.
